


a cold touch

by wyvernknighted



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguously Sad Ending, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mercedes teasing Hubert compilation post, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28507665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyvernknighted/pseuds/wyvernknighted
Summary: After Mercedes accompanies the Black Eagles on their mission to Remire Village, she is deeply troubled by the horrors of the tragedy. In the days following, she finds unlikely support in her friendship with Hubert.written for day 3 of the Mercibert weekend for the prompts hurting and healing.
Relationships: Mercedes von Martritz/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33
Collections: Mercedes/Hubert Weekend





	1. hidden wounds

**Author's Note:**

> The summary isn't exactly perfect to describe this work. The concept is essentially "what if Hubert and Mercedes had a developing bond right before timeskip." This odd multichapter fic is the result.
> 
> The body horror bit is related to Hubert’s hands and the corruption of dark magic that is essentially fanon at this point

She had only accepted the professor’s request because it had seemed so minor at the time. Their expression had been neutral, their eyebrows a slight angle. It hardly seemed concerning, so of course Mercedes had accepted. Sure, she had heard rumors of the illness spreading through Remire Village. But at the time, it had seemed like important experience. She was, after all, hoping to pursue healing as a member of the church’s ranks. And when the professor cited a lack of healing amongst their class, she felt like it was the perfect opportunity.

“They are skilled mages, but when it comes to faith magic…” They trailed off, their eyes drifting to the side. Mercedes nodded, hummed a little.

“I’d be happy to help.”

That was before the fires of Remire Village blossomed ahead, coloring their path with smoke and carnage. And now that she’s heard the screams of innocents dying, as those who were once their neighbors turned on them, she’s not sure how she’s going to sleep. She’s not sure how she’s going to feel at the end of this, now that she’s in the midst of it. Each horrifying sight redoubles her dread. And now she’s separated from the main group of students. Their formations and shorthand commands are new to her, and no amount of prebattle preparation could bridge that gap. At least, not with how last minute her inclusion on this mission was.

Mercedes takes a steadying breath as she runs lightly forward. She tries to step gingerly, favoring soft grass over the dirt hardened by the steps of everyday routine. Even among the swirling cacophony of this cursed town, she can’t help but try to keep quiet. The less attention she draws to herself, the better.

As she hops over a shattered fence and takes cover behind the broken wall of a shed, she hears a man nearby grunt. He’s cursing under his breath in a voice clearly affected by pain. It’s the heightened note in his tone that causes her to hesitate. She creeps out from behind her hiding place, careful as she turns in search of the voice. She recognizes him as he brings a worn leather shield up to meet his opponent’s blade. Hubert winces with the hit, and the force knocks his grip loose. As the shield drops, the sword’s edge grazes his glove, tearing through the fabric like the bow of a ship slicing through water. Hubert drops to his knee, cradling his injured hand. When the villager raises his sword once more, he glances up and catches Mercedes’s eye. She sees a flash in his gaze, an imperceptible shift in his demeanor. She registers the white fabric of his glove turning red. And she steps out from behind her shelter, hand outstretched in reflex more than action.

Nosferatu flows from her fingertips in a wispy glow of light, catching the villager in the back. He stumbles forward, his blade missing its mark. Hubert follows up, his uninjured hand extending forth a cast of Miasma. It hits its target directly in the chest, coating him in malleable shadow. The villager thuds to the ground with a sickening thump, letting out one last cry before going still.

She does not linger, though she wishes to. Instead, she turns to Hubert.

“Let me.” She says, reaching for him. He flinches away from her, pulling his injured hand close to his chest.

“Don’t mind it.” He grits out, looking past her shoulder. “We should keep mov-”

“It won’t take long.” Mercedes though slightly annoyed, keeps her tone light. She holds out a hand, looking at him expectantly. “I’m here to help out with the healing. At least let me try.”

Hubert sighs and extends his hand. “Very well.”

Mercedes had been expecting the shallow cut across the back of his hand. But when she peels back his glove to get a better look, she pauses. His hand, instead of matching the color of his wrist, is tinged gray. The color deepens to a dark gray-black as it travels out to his fingertips. That almost liquid-like shadow that he had summoned earlier with his cast of Miasma seems to linger along his skin, the flesh glistening with fresh corruption. And it’s cold, seeping through the thin fabric of his gloves. As if she had pulled him from the bottom of a frozen lake, the chill of his fingertips sinks into her palm. She looks at him, eyes wide, and he has the audacity to smile.

“What is wrong with your hands?”

“I told you not to mind it.” The edge of his mouth is curved with an underlying bitterness. She frowns at him, her patience wearing thin.

“Well, at least let me manage the cut.” She casts heal, the magic flowing from her hands in a warm glow. The skin rejoins along the back of Hubert’s hand, its only remnant a thin line of blood. The discolored skin, however, remains unchanging.

He pulls his hand away as soon as the spell is done. His finger brushes along hers, and that same chill remains. She wants to ask him more, but as she begins to form the question in her mind, she hears the echoed voice of a nearby classmate.

“C’mon Lin, we need to help the others over here!” Caspar shouts as he runs through a nearby street.

“We should rejoin the others.” Hubert is curt.

Though Mercedes wants to pose her question, half out of concern and half out of curiosity, she lets it go. She nods, following after him towards Caspar’s next shout and Linhardt’s following sigh of exasperation. 

* * *

  
It's been three days since the calamity at Remire and its all anyone at the monastery can talk about. For good reason, since it’s the worst thing to have happened locally in recent memory. At least with Flayn and Monica, there was a silver lining of hope. But Remire hangs over the monastery, weighing all present down under the weight of its unsettling reality. Most of it is rumor at this point. The only ones who really know what happened are those who went on the class mission. Mercedes, regrettably, is amongst those few.

“Mercie, are you okay?” Annette leans beside her, pigtails swaying with the motion. “You’ve barely touched your food.”

Mercedes pokes another vegetable with her fork thoughtfully. “I’m just not in the mood.”

She’s sitting with her class during lunch, Annette on her right as always. Ingrid and Ashe sit on her left. Across from them, Dedue and Dimitri eat quietly. Felix sits a few spaces away, glaring across the room. Mercedes does not need to look to confirm that the recipient of that glare is a certain redheaded classmate, currently flirting with the girl serving out plates of food.

“Is it about the, uh—”

“Remire, right?” Ingrid cuts in, never one to mince words.

“She might not be up to talking about it, guys.” Ashe reminds them, leaning by Ingrid’s shoulder with an anxious look. Mercedes keeps her gaze down, instead occupying her sight with the dance of green peas across her plate. This reminds her of the times people talked around her at the Bartells, how she had faded into the backdrop so easily in those days. The memory brings with it a bitter taste. She sets down her fork, no longer able to distract herself.

“You know, if you want to talk about it…” Annette trails off, waiting for Mercedes to offer a reply. She still doesn’t quite know what to say, but obviously avoiding the topic isn’t helping the situation.

“I’d rather not think about it, is all.” Mercedes sighs. “Can we move on?”

“Yeah, of course!” Annette’s tone is overly vibrant, a bright patch of color trying to distract from the point. Mercedes smiles at her effort. Luckily, she has just the thing to change the topic.

“I’ve actually been thinking about trying a new baking recipe, and I wanted your thoughts Annie…”

* * *

She lingers outside of the black eagles classroom. The last afternoon lecture ended a while ago, but she was hoping to run into Byleth. Perhaps talking about it with the professor could help her make sense of what happened in Remire Village. However, the classroom appears empty.

She steps inside, glancing around. In the dimming light of dusk, with no candles lit, the room is cloaked half in shadow. She hears the scrape of wood against stone and almost jumps when she catches sight of a figure moving at the far end of the room.

“Mercedes?” He halts before her, shadows no longer obscuring his features. Hubert, holding a sizable tome, looks at her warily. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just looking for the professor.” Up this close, Mercedes finds it odd, how she can only see one of his eyes. His hair covers the other in a thick curtain. It obscures the emotion in his face just slightly. The ambiguity between his expressions, the spaces between interpretation, leave her on edge. She worries her lip. “Actually, I wanted to ask you something as well.”

“Oh?” Hubert adjusts his grip on his tome, bringing it towards his chest. In the motion she sees the fall of his shield, the force of the sword. She blinks and remembers herself.

“What happened to your hands? Truly?”

His eye narrows, a gleam of light green against the dark. “It’s a consequence of the magic I use.” A pause. “When someone without a crest, like myself, uses dark magic, it corrupts the flesh in the ways you observed.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“It is a tool which I need. The risk is worth it.”

Her frown deepens. “The level of damage…it seems like it could be permanent, if you’re not careful.”

“Yes, well,” Hubert turns to step around her. “That is my concern, not yours. If you’ll excuse me.”

She watches his back as he leaves, stepping from one patch of light into an unlit corridor. He melts into the darkness as if he belongs there.

* * *

Mercedes keeps an eye on Hubert after that. If her eyes once slid over his unremarkable visage before, now they hesitate for just a moment. Something compels her to take note of his presence. She feels a question boiling beneath the surface, one she’s not sure how yet to ask.

“Mercedes?” Ashe’s voice sounds beside her.

She had been lost in thought again, looking ahead at Hubert’s silhouette standing amongst the black eagles. She returns to the present, remembering to watch her step. It is lucky, considering she was about to walk blindly into a dip in the ground.

“Yes Ashe?” She manages to reply, though not without some strain.

“Are you ok? You seem a bit, er, distant.” He’s referring to her almost tripping, she realizes. Ashe always tries so hard to be polite. She smiles at the kindness.

“I’m ok. Maybe just a bit tired. I did not sleep very well last night.”

The pair were walking back to the kitchen, bags of vegetables in hand. It was their turn on kitchen duty. As they turned the corner, Mercedes risks one more glance in the direction of the courtyard. But she’s lost her angle, the group of students now concealed by a stone pillar. As they turn the corner, she gives up her idle daydreaming.

“Maybe we could get you some calming herbs. They help me when I’m having trouble falling asleep.” Ashe suggests. “We could see if there are any laying around in the pantry.”

After they set down their ingredients, Ashe steps away for a moment. Mercedes washes the vegetables while he rummages through their stores of herbs.

“I can’t find any chamomile or lavender,” Ashe says, popping his head out from behind the pantry door. “There is some tawnyroot, but that’s not really used as a sleeping aid…”

“What’s it used for?” Mercedes likes being curious, especially when her friends know so much that she does not. Ashe returns to her side, the herb in his hand. It’s a thick root, dark brown in color with thin tendrils branching off of it.

“If you make a poultice with it, you can use it to heal minor wounds and prevent infection.” Ashe rotates it slightly as he holds it. “It’s especially helpful for magical wounds.” He hums, turning to set it back in the pantry. Mercedes, however, reaches for his arm.

“Could you show me how?”

* * *

She finds him in the last place she expected him, just outside of the chapel. Of the imperial nobles, few were demonstrably devout. Hubert was at the bottom of that list, exhibiting profound indifference whenever the faith was mentioned around him. And yet here he stands before the chapel with his hands clasped behind his back. He raises an eyebrow as she approaches.

“You’re waiting for Edelgard, aren’t you?”

He stiffens. “What makes you say that?”

Mercedes laughs. “You always stand like this,” she mimics him, squaring her shoulders and pulling her hands behind her in the same tight grip, “when you’re waiting on your lady.”

Hubert is unamused. “Does this mockery have a point?”

Mercedes drops her mimicry, instead bringing a hand to stifle her laugh. “Just making conversation.”

“Ah, I see.”

“I did have something for you, though.” Mercedes rifles through her bag and extracts the small glass container. “It’s a poultice for magical wounds.” She offers it to him.

He looks at it for a moment, shock too fresh to conceal clear upon his face. “What?”

“I thought you could use it on your hands.”

Hubert’s eye narrows as he regards her. “What purpose do you have in offering me such a thing?”

“Um.” Mercedes feels awkward suddenly, as if she hadn’t quite thought this through. “I just wanted to help?”

His gaze stills on her once more before he finally looks down at the poultice. He accepts it cautiously, appraising it like a merchant might scrutinize a gem of unknown worth. “And what is in this…concoction?”

“Mostly just paste made from tawnyroot, and a few other minor herbs.” Mercedes explains. “Ashe helped me make it.”

“Does he have any experience with medicine?”

“Apparently Lord Lonato taught him about herbs and salves. At least, that’s what he told me.” Mercedes shrugs. “If you don’t like it, I don’t mind. I was just offering it in case you wanted to give it a try.”

Hubert wrinkles his nose before pocketing the container. “Yes, well. I suppose I can do that. Give a try, that is.”

“Lovely!” Mercedes tries to smooth everything over with a smile. The most surprising moment, however, is when Hubert just slightly returns it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah I made up a random herb to work in the story. I needed something and I don’t know shit about herbs so!! Tawnyroot! whatever!!
> 
> anyways I'm going to try to update this when I get the chance, probably on Sundays? We'll see.


	2. restless nights

A week has passed since Remire, and the wave of melancholy has mostly lifted from the monastery halls. Instead of whispered rumor, most of the words exchanged between students concerns the upcoming ball, as well as the White Heron cup. Every conversation she’s had so far today, Mercedes realizes, has had to do with the ball. Normally she loves things like this – events allow people to take note of progress and cement memories with those you love. But she can’t seem to shake the memories of Remire. Ever since that day, she hasn’t slept much.

She tries, though, to distract herself. She hurries her pace to catch up with Annette, who is currently needling Ingrid for her stubbornness.

“I’m not going.” Ingrid insists.

“But Ingrid, the ball is so fun!” Annette loops her arm around Ingrid’s, leaning into her shoulder. “Me and Mercie want to see you there!”

Mercedes remembers her cue. She nears Ingrid, keeping in step with the pair of girls. Ingrid sighs as Mercedes also loops their arms together. Together they form a pretzel of which Ingrid is the unwilling center.

Mercedes continues Annette’s mission. “We could even help you pick out an outfit. Maybe give you a little makeover before the ball—”

“Absolutely not!”

The three of them walk into the Blue Lions house, where some of their fellow classmates are resting before lecture. Hanneman has not yet arrived, but he usually arrives late on the first lecture of the week. His research demands his attention over their days off, but it often bleeds into the workday if he’s particularly enraptured.

Mercedes takes a seat next to Ashe, Ingrid and Annette still bickering by her side. Normally this sort of thing doesn’t faze her. But she has been running low on sleep lately. Ever since Remire, she can’t sleep until its well past the early hours of morning. Since classes begin early in the morning, she’s been behind on sleep for several nights in a row now. So when Ingrid and Annette devolve into childish quarreling, she takes matters into her own hands with a welcome change in topic.

“Who do you think the professor will choose for the White Heron cup?”

That halts their disagreement. “Hm. I don’t know.” Annette taps her lip. “Maybe it’ll be Ingrid. Then she’ll have to go to the ball.”

Ingrid wears a very dignified snarl in response. “I would rather die than wear whatever outfit that requires.”

This is verging again into territory that Mercedes would rather avoid. She claps her hand, breaking the tense staring contest between Annette and Ingrid. “Maybe he’ll choose you, Annie. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“Uh! No?” Annette exclaims. “I would totally mess it up and ruin it for our house.”

“I think you would do fine.” Ashe reassures her, but his contribution is quickly forgotten as Hanneman walks into the classroom.

“Good morning everyone! Please excuse my tardiness this morning.” He prepares his lecture podium, cracking open a large text. As he turns to the board before him though, he pauses. “It seems we are low on chalk. Would anyone care to fetch some from the supply closet?”

Mercedes raises her hand without thinking it through, following the impulse to remove herself from between Annette and Ingrid, who were still exchanging impassioned glares at one another. As she walks from the courtyard, she doesn’t bother stifling her sigh of relief.

“Rough day?”

For a moment Mercedes does not see him, and instead thinks that a shadow along the wall came to life and spoke to her. She actually startles, gasping for a moment. And then she recognizes Hubert, crouching slightly beside the wall as he shakes out a rug.

“You’re on chore duty this early?” Mercedes asks after gathering herself again.

“Byleth allowed me to skip this lecture, as it pertains to a topic that I’m already knowledgeable of. In exchange, she wanted me to clean some of the classroom’s decorations.” He shakes the small rug once more before standing up and hanging it on the lower edge of the wall.

“I see.”

“And you? Surely you’re not skipping class.”

“No, just running an errand for Professor Hanneman.” Mercedes glances behind him, towards the door that leads to the storage closet.

“Is it time sensitive?” Hubert asks as he lifts another rug.

Mercedes shrugs, “Not really.” It feels like only half of a lie, but she does not mind. She finds herself smiling, an odd thing in the company of Hubert. She’s not sure when she grew comfortable around him, or when she first considered him a friend. But in the morning light, watching him curiously as he struggles with dusty rugs, she catches herself at ease regardless.

Something about him seems different. Mercedes pauses, squinting at him closely for a moment. Then the realization strikes at once.

“Your bangs are pulled back.” She points, gesturing to bandana tied around his forehead. He pulls a hand to cover where she points, disdain crossing his face.

“Bernadetta suggested it. It’s repugnant, I know.” Mercedes recognizes the defeatist note in his tone, though its presence confuses her.

“I like it.” She smiles. “I can see both of your eyes now.”

As she admits this, she also sees how both of his eyes widen like a ripple across water. How his eyebrows move in tandem, more expressive than she would have expected. She wonders whether his bangs are meant for an aesthetic, or if their purpose is more tactical in nature. There is some advantage in concealing sincere emotion, though she has never felt the need to. At least, not since she has arrived at the monastery. She remembers the decaying skin of his fingers, along his palm, and remembers that the tools he uses and the goals he aspires towards in life seem to differ greatly from hers.

It’s no matter. As he reacts to her little compliment, she still laughs at his genuine surprise. It’s cute, she decides. She even feels a bit of surprise herself, that she would think such a thing about Hubert.

“Regardless, I’m nearly done so,” He pulls the bandana off in one quick motion. His bangs flop in front of his face in thick, tangled strands and Mercedes giggles once more. He sighs, but the quirk of his lips indicates that he might be convinced to laugh as well, if given the opportunity. Mercedes almost teases him again, just to see what reaction that might provoke. But she misses her chance. As Hubert rearranges his bangs into something close to neat, he says. “I wanted to tell you something, actually.”

“Hm?”

“The poultice you gave me.” He pulls off one of his gloves and shows Mercedes. “It works fairly well.” The skin of his hand is more pale, but remarkably less gray. His fingers are still discolored, but the small amount of improvement is noticeable. “I’ve brought it to Byleth’s attention, and she’s adding it to the current regimen we’ve established.”

Mercedes nods. “I’m so glad.”

“There’s also something else…” Hubert pulls his glove back up his hand, squeezing his fist to adjust the fit of the fabric. “I do not like owing people.” His words sound ominous despite the light smile on his face. “So tell me, Mercedes, what can I do to repay you?”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that.” She assures him. “I’m just happy to help.”

Hubert blinks, unfazed. “I’m afraid I must insist. It does not sit well for me to accept idle favors without recompense.”

Mercedes thinks for a moment, then yawns. Mid-yawn, she realizes it. “Oh!” she says. “I haven’t been sleeping lately, actually. Maybe you could get me something to help with that.”

“Very well then. I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Mercedes walks back to the greenhouse, potted plants balanced precariously in her arms. She hears a call to her side, and notices Dedue walking towards her.

“Would you like some help?” He asks, eyeing the stoneware that she’s struggling to keep her grip on.

“Oh, sure!” Mercedes passes him a pot. “Thank you so much, Dedue! You’re a lifesaver.”

The two return to the greenhouse in relative silence. It’s as they are lining the terra cotta pots along the shelves that Mercedes wonders aloud.

“There are so many lovely plants in here. Are most of these rare?”

Dedue steps to her side, appraising the bloom that has caught her eye. “No, I think most of these plants are common. They are diverse in origin, though. Each of these flowers, for example,” he gestures to the flower bed. “There are variants from Faerghus, as well as Adrestia and the Alliance. These ones,” he points out a particularly vibrant flower, its petals a deep vermillion “are even from Duscur.”

“My, they are quite lovely.” Mercedes kneels to get a closer look. “It’s amazing, that we can support flowers which all require different things.”

Dedue hums in agreement. “Yes, in order to maintain something like this, it takes a careful balance.”

“It feels fitting for Garreg Mach.” Mercedes says as she traces her finger along the thin petal of a flower.

“How so?”

“Well, I see so many different people across classes. Even though we don’t always see students from other classes every day, I think about how we’re all so different. How we’re all growing together, with different needs and strengths and flaws. Just like these flowers.” Mercedes realizes it sounds a little silly, when she vocalizes it. Before she can take back her words, though, Dedue surprises her. He nods.

“I understand what you mean. Our flower patches are more sectioned off than this perhaps. But together we are bound all the same.”

“I think it would be fun to talk to the others in different classes more.” Mercedes looks off, beyond the greenhouse door. “Don’t you think?”

“Perhaps not for me.” Dedue admits. “I am content with the allies we have in our class. But it is nice to imagine, I suppose.” He stands up, dusting his hands off on his pants. “We should head back. I think dinner will be served soon.”

“Oh, I lost track of the time.” She laughs as she joins him in his walk to the dining hall.

* * *

It is on her way from the dining hall that she senses a presence – like a shadow following her. She turns in the night, expecting it to be nothing. Instead, she’s met with a tall frame holding a tea cup of all things.

“Hubert?” She recognizes green against the pallid complexion hidden beneath his dark fringe. “You nearly scared me!”

“My apologies. That was not my intention.” He holds the teacup aloft with gloved hands. “I have a gift.”

Mercedes pauses, waiting for the punchline. When it does not come, she’s even more confused. “A teacup?”

“Not exactly. Are you available? I’d assumed because of the late hour…”

“I was about to head back to my room, but I can make some time. Let’s head to the common room.”

And that is how, on a brisk evening, Mercedes finds herself sitting across from Hubert von Vestra as he struggled with a mixture of tea leaves.

“He said the water should be just hot enough to boil, but not boiling,” He mutters as he eyes the tea kettle before them warily.

“You still haven’t explained what this is all about.” Mercedes asks, curiosity spurring her inquiry.

Hubert blinks for a moment. “Ah, I suppose I should elaborate.” He gestures to the hobbled together set up of kettle, teacups, and leaves before them. “I was looking for a solution for your sleep deprivation. And while Ferdinand is quite skilled at making a fool of himself, he’s also regrettably knowledgeable on tea. After looking into it, I found out that tea can be effective as a sleeping aid. So I thought, perhaps if we tried a cup of tea before bed…”

“That it might help my insomnia?”

Hubert nods. “Precisely.”

Mercedes hums. “That’s quite nice of you, Hubert.”

His grip on the handle of the teacup slips, the delicate ceramic striking wood with a stringent _ting_. He picks it up quickly again, observing it for cracks. He seems very intent on keeping eye contact to a minimum. Mercedes is curious once more, but bites her tongue. She knows very little of Hubert beyond his reputation. Even though she’s been developing her understanding of him, it’s been slow going. She’d rather keep her questions to herself than unintentionally upset him.

The water steams up nicely, and Hubert begins doling out the tea leaves. He follows the leaves quickly with the hot water, and the aroma of steeping tea fills the room. Mercedes observes this clumsy display with a furtive smile, one that flees when Hubert glances up to look at her at last. He does not catch the teasing air to her gaze, thankfully, and instead hands her a teacup.

“It smells lovely. What kind of tea is this?” She asks.

“Chamomile. Apparently it helps with sleeplessness.” Hubert looks down into his own cup. “Or that’s what Ferdinand said. I’m not exactly an expert.”

“It couldn’t hurt to try at least.” Mercedes glances around. “Did you bring sugar?”

“Oh no, I didn’t” Hubert looks of all things sheepish. “You do like your sweets, don’t you?”

Mercedes hums. “I don’t think I’ve talked about that with you before, Hubert. Have you been keeping an eye on me?”

She means it purely as a joke, since Hubert is just the right amount of serious to tease. But from the way he averts his eyes and grows quiet, it seems he took her seriously this time.

“I only know that which you make obvious. You and others in your class, you’re all straightforward with your interests, your strengths…your weaknesses.” He sounds detached, his eyes looking behind her but not quite focusing on anything. “It’s not difficult to keep track of.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Mercedes swirls her tea leaves in her cup. “How long should we let this steep?”

“Five minutes, I believe.”

They wait in a moment of quiet, one almost comfortable. She’s learning how to avoid the awkward moments of early friendship with him. He’s a distant person, but when she catches him off-guard, he’s actually fairly sincere. She wonders who he lets his guard down around normally. Certainly not most of the others in his class. Perhaps with his Lady, but even then, it’s likely that he does not. He seems like the sort of person to keep his cards close to his chest. As she considers these things, Hubert makes a small noise of recognition when the tea is ready. He strains the leaves from her cup first, soon followed by his own.

“Why did you make yourself a cup?” She asks.

Hubert carries the plate away from the small table between them, stepping away to throw out the leaves. He replies as he returns. “I thought it would convey a message of goodwill. I would not blame you, if you didn’t want to drink something another person prepared, it they didn’t drink a cup as well.”

Mercedes laughs. “I don’t think you would poison me. The rumors about you surely are not that bad.”

Hubert shrugs. “Yes, well you might be surprised. Either way, I meant to be polite. Tea is far from my preference.”

“What do you prefer?”

“Coffee. It keeps me awake far more effectively.”

Mercedes takes a sip of her tea. “Yes, I think that makes sense for you. You always seem to be working hard.”

Hubert hums noncommittally. “Yes, well. Either way, I hope this tea can help with your insomnia.”

@@

The tea did not seem to help with her insomnia. Mercedes is awake two hours past midnight. Again.

She sighs, sitting up from her bed. Since she’s been staring at the ceiling for a good few hours, it’s about time she spent her sleepless hours effectively. She wasn’t falling asleep anytime soon, that much was clear.

She grabs her yarn bag, careful to check that her favorite pair of needles are in the front pocket, and pulls on her coat. She prefers to sit on the comfy chair in the common room on nights like these.

It takes a few moments but she gets set up. She has a very specific project in mind, but it should not take her a long time. As she counts her stitches, she wonders about measurements from idle observation. She sets to work, careful to keep her needles from clacking too much. She doubts anyone is up at this hour, but she’d rather remain quiet if she can help it.

It’s after a few hours of the repetitive motion of knitting that her eyes grow heavy. Under the weight of a warm fleece blanket, with the soft heat of the fireplace nearby, she drifts off to sleep in the early hours of the morning. She’s able to get two, maybe three hours of rest before she is woken by Annette’s cry. The little redhead had not expected to find her curled up in the common area, still drowsy in her nightdress.

* * *

The day of the ball arrives too quickly for Mercedes’s liking. The festivities feel a bit hollow, since Remire is still fresh on her mind. She catches the eye of Dorothea, striding past in the courtyard, and notices a similar apprehension.

Regardless, she combs Annie’s hair, braids it into a sweet hairstyle that has her beaming. She’s hoping to catch the eye of her crush at the ball, a young mage just as talented as she is (if not more). Mercedes thinks Lysithea is a lovely girl, if a bit standoffish on first impression. But she makes Annie’s smile brighten, the gleam in her eye twinkle with the excitement of first love. So Mercedes decides to be hopeful for her.

The ball is a maze of social convention, filled with expectations that Mercedes doesn’t quite fit into. She’s surely not a noble, but she’s not exactly a commoner either. She remembered some of the etiquette she had been taught at House Bartels, but none of it seems relevant to this grand hall, bustling with nobles from an array of different places. The commoners remain on the fringes, their chatter louder, their dances looser without as much need for social precision. Mercedes finds herself gravitating towards this crowd, a glass of spiked punch in her hands.

She finds a place to stand, and watches the drama unfold. Edelgard and Dimitri each always have a partner, their feet never still on the dance floor. As soon as one song ends, another begins with a hand extended, a step forward soon followed. Dorothea is another popular dancer, though she is often the one asking for the other’s hand. She now sways with Petra, who laughs into her shoulder over some shared joke.

Mercedes notices Annette, standing with Ingrid and Felix. While her two classmates bicker before her, Annette continues to glance carefully in the direction of a certain white-haired mage. Lysithea stands with Marianne and Hilda, snacking on pastries and offering the occasional rebuke. It seems like Annette wants to edge away and take a chance, but the flow of the dance floor keeps them separated for now. Mercedes wishes she could grant Annette that extra bit of courage she needs, but the floor is far too crowded for her to push through for a last minute pep talk.

She does not feel the need to dance herself. She’s mostly still tired from her sleepless nights over the past weeks. No amount of powder could hide the dark circles under her eyes. Even now beneath the bright, unyielding light of the ball, she knows she looks worse for wear.

So, even though it’s only been about an hour, she leaves the ball for her room. She wants to get back to work on her knitting project, since it’s meant to be a gift. As she steps out of the ballroom, she’s lost in thought. She doesn’t notice the figure before her, appearing as if materialized from shadow. It’s not a surprise to her, though, when she notices Hubert’s presence after bumping into his chest. It seems that’s always how she finds him, stepping out of dark rooms into well-lit ones.

“Leaving so soon?”

“I’m afraid so.” Mercedes blinks, the exhaustion creeping up on her in waves. “I’m a bit too tired for dancing, I think.”

“I take it the tea didn’t help much then?”

“Not much, no.” Mercedes sighs, and then turns towards the dormitories.

“Would you like a walking companion, at the very least?” He asks, just as she’s about to step away. She pauses. “Since my solution was not much of a help, I could still make it up to you.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Mercedes thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “But if you want to come along feel free.”

Hubert follows her step from the ball.

“So you’re not watching over Edelgard then?” Mercedes tries to make clear the tease in her voice, so he knows she only means to poke fun. He seems relaxed as he replies, so at least this one lands.

“She’s managing just fine on her own.” Hubert says knowingly. “I do not wish to crowd her. And tonight is one of our last opportunities for such joviality. I hope she enjoys it.”

“What about you? Aren’t you supposed to be enjoying the dance as well?”

“Dances are for match making or playing politics, neither of which I intend to do tonight.” Hubert keeps pace beside her, matching her gait. Even though his legs are long, he doesn’t walk too far ahead of her. When she turns to look at him, he’s right beside her. The starlight catches in his dark hair, silver lining the long waves of his bangs. He catches her staring at him.

“What?”

Mercedes shrugs. “I’m just zoning out. You know me.” She hopes her airy tone is convincing. He seems to harbor further questions, however.

“Something seems to be on your mind.”

She chuckles lightly. “You got me. I was just thinking, it’s odd that you’re so nice to me.” Upon hearing her words aloud, she realizes they could easily read as an insult. “Not that you’re mean!” She hastens to correct herself. “I just meant…you don’t really talk to people outside of your class.”

He keeps his gaze forward. “Yes, well, I suppose I view you as a special case.”

“How so?”

Hubert is quiet for a moment. The only sound between them is the shared clatter of footsteps against stone, softened by the damp night. Then he speaks. “I think of you as an ally, I suppose. You do not feel like a threat and…I find your presence comforting. To a degree.”

Mercedes smiles easily. She had figured it was something along those lines, but it is nice to hear confirmation. “You can just say friend, you know.”

Hubert avoids her eye, though she leans towards him as she talks. Had she been more tipsy, she might have called out his avoidance. But instead she allows him that grace, the ability to politely abstain from answering.

They reach her dormitory room and she almost regrets saying goodbye. She watches him recede into the dark for just a moment before shutting the door softly. It’s only when she’s alone that she remembers how he called her an ally, claimed that her presence was a comfort. She had assumed she had forgotten what it was like, to feel excited by such a simple admission from another person. But it is true that when she heard it, and now reflects upon it, the words leave a subtle hope folded in her heart.

She sits upon her bed and begins to knit.

* * *

She finishes her project in a matter of days. Holding the dark fabric up to the candlelight, she admires her work. Still a bit clumsy, with a handful of mistakes. But created with the thought and care that only handknit gifts contain. She folds them carefully in a small box and ties the ribbon around its oblong shape with a steady hand.

It takes several trips around the monastery, but she finally finds him in the entrance hall. Curiously, he wears a heavy coat, along with a black pair of gloves instead of his usual white. He’s so distracted, he doesn’t notice her approach until she’s nearly standing beside him.

“Mercedes.” He says when he notices her all at once. “Is there something you need?”

“I just wanted to give you this.” She presents the box, as if it goes without explanation. He raises an eyebrow, looking very much like he still expects one. “Go on, open it!”

He’s just as cautious as last time, taking it into his hands and subtly testing its weight. As if a simple gift is something immaterial that will float away as soon as he lets go of it. It does not float, but remains solidly in his grasp. He pulls the ribbon free and pries the lid off. Snug within the box lay the handknit gloves. She had chosen a deep maroon for the color of his house.

“Did you make these yourself?” His voice is fragile in this moment, like glass stretched thin. She nods, wondering once again if the gift had been a step too far. He pulled off his current pair of gloves, a lovely thick black pair of much higher quality. His skin flashes before her in a brief moment between cloth, as he pulls one pair off and slips on the next. She notes that his skin is still gray, turned dark at the tips of his fingers. She doesn’t need to touch his hand to know that it’s still deeply cold. So, when he pulls her handknit gloves on, she can’t but smile and hope they warm him just a bit. She silently congratulates herself when it’s clear that they fit him well. Gloves were a weakness of hers when it came to knitting. She much prefers scarves since the measurements rarely matter from person to person. But she had succeeded with this gift, it seems, as she observes Hubert’s face soften into a look of gratitude.

It’s interesting, she had rarely noticed how expressive he could be before now. But she feels that she can read his mood much more easily than before. This is how she knows, as he looks at her handmade gift, that it means something to him.

“Thank you,” he says at last. “They’re lovely.”

She knows he’s happy to receive them, and so she’s surprised when his tone comes out sounding melancholic.

“Is there something wrong?” She asks, before she can think better of it.

“No, nothing. These are perfect.” He halts for a second. “But why?”

“Your hands were cold.” She says. “From when I healed them, I felt it. I don’t know if it will help but…” She shrugs. “I thought you could use them.”

“I see. Well, I am very grateful.” Again, that strained note in his voice returned. “I apologize. You have caught me at a difficult moment.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m about to leave to attend to some family matters. I will not return until next week.” As Hubert talks about his home, it’s like a dark cloud drifts over his face. With his eyes downcast and his lip curled, he looks like he’s just found a piece of trash stuck to his shoe. She wonders what about his home troubles him, but realizes now is certainly not a good time to ask.

“So I suppose this is goodbye for now.” Mercedes tries to brighten up the mood and catch his gaze from his fixed spot on the ground. His eyes rise to meet hers, but they hardly hold a trace of mirth.

“I suppose so.” Hubert pauses for a moment, glancing to the side. A man stands by the door, obviously waiting. “Before I leave…I wanted to clarify my earlier statement.”

“Oh? Which one?”

“About how I view you. Earlier I called you an ally. But you were right. It is much simpler to just call you a friend.” Hubert tries to smile, she knows he’s trying to seem happy. But the look in his eye betrays that façade, lets her know that something pulls at his heart, like his heart is sinking beneath layers of water and she can only witness its descent beneath the waves.

Regardless of the suffering in his eyes, she understands that his words are sincere.

“I think of you as a friend too. I hope your trip goes well.” She thinks about perhaps placing her hand on his, out of politeness or comfort. Something to dull the intensity of his expression. But she restrains herself. “I’ll see you next week.”

She steps away, waves goodbye, and does not notice the lack of his reply.

When she sees him next, it is after the war begins, after she stays behind to heal the wounded. He’s a shadow dancing between the flames, carrying the will of his blood-soaked Emperor. He does not meet her gaze on that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the bandana that Hubert wears is like the kind in animal crossing, just so you can imagine the style I had in mind


	3. ill-fated reunion

She thinks that perhaps, a visit could not hurt. And so, on her journey back to Fhirdiad, she makes a slight detour. The broken silhouette of Garreg Mach Monastery leans against the horizon, cast in the light of the sinking sun.

It has been four years since the empire declared war on the church, and four years since Mercedes joined the ranks of the church’s monks to heal the wounded. The Edelgard she knew from academy days has grown and shifted, stretching like a shadow deepening with the setting sun. Much too large to seem human as she once knew her. She is the immovable emperor, who wields an axe that has cleaved apart the normalcy she and her classmates once indulged in. As if it was a personal slight against her, which Mercedes knows is not the case. Edelgard made her decision for reasons Mercedes may never truly know. It does not help dull the sting of betrayal she once felt over the Flame Emperor’s true identity. No, what dulled that pain was the endless march of time, the years slotting into place one after another, as borders grew strained and bodies grew numerous across either side of the battlefield. And Mercedes, well she’s just been trying to stay afloat.

She is drawn to the cathedral out of nostalgia. A slight sense of fate, perhaps, knowing that four years ago to the day, she saw Hubert off. The Hubert she knew then surely couldn’t be the Hubert she hears about from time to time, that shadowy right-hand man of the emperor. And yet, she knows that it’s technically true. They are the same person, most likely. The Hubert who lingered, who smiled rarely but genuinely, who accepted her gift with surprised gratitude. The Hubert whose hands she had mended, whose hands were most likely still rotting away under the strain of dark magic.

When she sees the ruined carcass of the cathedral, she cannot help but kneel before its massive body. Its gaping maw at least provides a lovely view of the sunset, which has turned the sky a pleasant shade of lavender. She thinks, distantly, of how much she had loved watching the sunset from the bridge. She would sometimes wander towards the cathedral after dinner to get a prayer in before bed and feed the stray cats leftovers from her meal. It was a little ritual, just for her and whichever strays happened to be around during that hour. She had hoped, she now realizes, that there would have been at least one or two cats around the cathedral. Without their presence, it feels empty.

As the light from the sunset dims, she decides that the inside of the cathedral feels dead. The cold marble, piled in a tall mound before her, almost glows blue as night falls and the moon rises. There is a flicker, as shadow passes along its rough surface, and she hears a light shift of movement behind her. She turns her head, hoping at last to see one of the old stray cats that once kept her company on nights like these. She is met, instead, with a shadowy figure, who only grows more ominous with each approaching step.

She should not be able to confidently recognize him, but he looks more himself than he ever did in their academy days. Hubert wears the garb of a noble attendant, attuned to his more dour tastes in shades of black and gray. His hair cuts a sharp edge across his face, obscuring one eye. His face has thinned over the years, perhaps from the strain of warfare. Oddly enough, she’s not surprised by his presence here, as if by mere thought she had summoned him to this place. The corridor between them stretches in the moonlight, a fated passage for ghosts and paths left untraveled.

“Hello there.” She says without missing a beat.

He halts, regards her for a moment. “So it is you.” He says finally.

“The one and only.” She rises from the ground, dusting off her skirt. “What brings the illustrious Marquis Vestra to this cathedral? Are you here to offer a prayer?”

That gets a huff of laughter out of him. He hides it behind his hand of course, which is gloved as always. He’s very much the same from when she knew him those years ago, she realizes. That makes it worse, somehow.

“No, certainly not.” He steps forward cautiously, striding closer. His footsteps echo through the cathedral’s lonely walls. “I was merely passing through.”

“Just passing through?” Her tone is unamused. “Last I heard, the imperial army was marching east towards the alliance.

“Yes, well, I am not on the frontlines right now. Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

He halts once more, this time far closer. She can see the lines in his face now, the deep purple circles underlining his eyes. She could reach out and trace her finger along the bruise-like skin should she choose to. She represses the impulse, instead pressing her hands together before her. One must face their past with barriers in place, and somehow bridging her hands into a firm grip grants her a bit of comfort. Hubert observes her in the moment of silence, his expression inscrutable.

She hesitates, her fingers pressing tighter. “That day, when you left…”

He looks at her, and there’s no mistaking the glint of sadness in his eyes. “I was leaving to make the final preparations. For the declaration of war, which we had been planning for…well quite some time.”

“Before you met me, I’m sure.”

“Yes. Before I met you.” He glances away, hands sliding into the inner pocket of his coat. “I did not expect to see you here, but now that I have…” He pulls out a small bundle of cloth, and Mercedes realizes that its knitted. He offers the worn red gloves to her, the same gift she had given him four years ago. Looking at it now, she notices some imperfections in the craft that she hadn’t caught before. They are worn from wear, and she processes that he’s used her gift over the years. She had half expected him to throw it away in a fireplace in some grand show of drama that would represent their broken alliance. But instead he had held on to them, had used them, and now sought to return them. The enormity of such a realization almost drives her to break composure, to betray a hint of emotion beneath the impassive mask of her expression. Painful pasts have taught her well, however, and her mouth remains a thin line. “Surely you would not have gifted this to me, had you known.”

She looks at him for a moment before pushing his hand away. Even through the gloves he now wears, she can feel the coldness of his fingers. “Keep them.”

“Why?”

“I gave them to you because I felt like you needed them. For your hands, you know.” She breaks their touch, content to return to her previous tight grip. It helps alleviate the tension, she’s sure. “Keep them. It’s going to get even colder soon. Gloves like those,” she nods at the thin, white gloves that he’s currently wearing, “won’t cut it a few weeks from now.”

He frowns and stares at her for a moment. Then he retracts his offering, returning the gloves to his inner coat pocket. “Very well then.” His gaze remains trained downward. She senses that the same melancholy has returned to his expression.

“Is there something on your mind?”

He lifts his gaze and the moonlight reflects in his eye. Had she been confident enough to read his expression, she might have interpreted that look as sincere. Before she can linger on the thought, he speaks. “I sometimes wonder if…things had turned out differently, then perhaps—"

“Don’t say anything you might regret, Marquis Vestra.” Her mouth curves around the words, each syllable turned bitter under the weight of years spent apart. Hubert falters.

“Yes, well.” He adjusts his coat, hand tugging at his collar in a motion she could interpret as nervous. She looks past him.

“I should be going.” She steps forward, and he steps away as she nears him. Like oil and water, repelled and attracted in equal measure.

“Where will you go?”

She’s not in the mood for lying. Mercedes meets his gaze unflinchingly as she replies. “Back to Fhirdiad.” She does not elaborate, and the words hang in the air awkwardly for a moment. “Where are you off to next?”

“I cannot divulge that information.” Hubert replies stiffly, in a response that seems almost scripted. She smiles again.

“I know. I figured I would ask, just to see if you would share.” He realizes that she’s teasing him and his posture stiffens further. It makes her want to tease him more, just to see how he’d react. That was the thing about Hubert. He was filled with surprises back then, in their academy days. Too many surprises, perhaps. 

Before she goes, she pauses one last time. There is one question she would not forgive herself if she neglected to ask.

“Is he alive?”

Hubert sighs. “I should not share information related to our—”

“You know why I’m asking.” Mercedes, her voice usually so soft, nearly snaps out her reply. There are few things that drive her to frustration. The tangled mess that is her relationship with Emile, the longstanding pain of it, is one such thing.

“He’s alive.” Hubert says at last. “That is all I will share.”

“That is all I ask.” Her pleasant tone is back, as if it had never left. She steps forward.

“Mercedes.” He calls out and she stills.

“I once...considered us as friends. If things had not turned out the way they had…I just wanted you to know. That I enjoyed the time we spent together.”

Mercedes turns just slightly, just enough to see the green of his eye, the sincerity on his face. It’s too much for her to think about in this moment. So, to maintain composure, she offers a simple reply, one that she has repeated to herself many times over the years. The one that rises to her mind each time she sees a familiar face on the battlefield.

“Let us hope we do not meet again.”

“Yes,” He says. “Let us hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I perhaps could have tagged this work as platonic, but I wrote it with more of an “unresolved emotional and romantic tension of what could have been vibe” so. / it is. I appreciate the potential for angst with mercibert (especially when they are caught on opposing sides of the war). 
> 
> I know the ending is a bit sad, so if you stuck around for it thanks for reading!!


End file.
